


Love Is A Verb

by pocketedwocket



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 01:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15984644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketedwocket/pseuds/pocketedwocket
Summary: House and Alvie form an unlikely connection that lasts beyond Mayfield.





	Love Is A Verb

It gets less annoying, after a while, and starts to be comforting. Somehow. At least in this place. Alvie’s voice in the darkness before sleep, his presence a constant behind him, beside him, always moving. Following him like a hummingbird, hanging on his every word. A teammate, comrade in arms, something like that. House is not sure what it is, but Alvie does this weird thing where he just _watches_ him.

There are a lot of corners that are monitored by orderlies or nurses. This makes the ones that aren’t watched easier for House to find, easier to slip into in the dark. Easy for Alvie to follow him into when nobody is looking.

The room is dark, but House and Alvie find each other easily in the shadows of Mayfield. House’s doctors had told him to seek connections; he doubted this was what they meant. Alvie is easy under his touch, moves well with him in the dark. Alvie’s hands are all over him - brushing against his hips, scratching at his chest, fingers slipping against House’s waistline. Their kiss is deep; Alvie occasionally pulls back to nip at House’s lower lip.

Alvie’s face is bruised, bloody, pink and red and tough at the edges. House cups Alvie’s cheek; his thumb catching the edge of the tender area. Alvie hisses and jerks, then soothes into body language that’s much more pliant. He catches House’s hand with his own and presses House’s finger harder into the skin. House looks down with disapproval.

“That doesn’t hurt?”

“Life is pain,” he replies - without missing a beat - in a moment of clarity, catching House’s mouth in another kiss. There’s something dark in his eyes, but House presses down anyway, swallowing Alvie’s noise in his own mouth.

They make out steadily for a few minutes until Alvie’s hand creeps beneath House’s waist with determination. 

“I’m not going to make you—“ House can barely get his sentence out before Alvie shakes his head.

“Not making me,” he says, “I want to. Quid pro quo.” House has to admire the kid’s sense of loyalty. Just met him in the cuckoo’s nest and already there’s a shine to him, a sheen of energy around the edges that picks up, and wavers when House is nearby. 

“I give you a shiner and you give me a quickie in the closet? That’s fair?”

“Man, shut up and let me blow you,” Alvie says, frustrated, shoving at House’s chest. Romantic. Alvie’s hands never seem to stop moving but House helps him with his own belt buckle anyway, pulls it through the loops. He rucks his pants down and Alvie follows, anchoring his hands in House’s jeans and eagerly leaning forward on his knees.

House’s eyes sink shut the moment Alvie’s warm mouth closes around his cock.

House runs his fingers through Alvie’s short, cropped hair; feels the curve of Alvie’s skull underneath his fingertips. He wonders if it feels good to Alvie in any way, gentle, then remembers Alvie practically begged him to open up his bruise while fucking his face and wonders if maybe a little choking action is more in order, or slapping him around a bit. He doesn’t have the heart for it. The best thing he can do is tighten his hand in Alvie’s hair and pull him back a little bit.

Alvie’s eyes are on him, shaky and red-rimmed but trained on his face. His mouth is puffy, raw. “You can hurt me. If you want. Or call me names,” he explains, before training his attention back at House’s dick with a hungry look on his face.

“I don’t want that,” House politely declines. He takes a moment to reflect on the risqué desires of the man on his knees in front of him, shaking his head to send the thoughts on their way. He’s in a locked mental unit with his roommate on his knees in front of him. It’s not his place to judge.

Alvie lavishes attention on him anyway. While the wheedling might have been beneficial for him, it clearly wasn’t necessary. Alvie sucked dick like his life was on the line, takes him down like a champ and deep-throats him like he’s had training. House comes moments later with a little gasp, leaning his head back against the wall. “Thank you,” Alvie whispers, so soft it almost disappears into the air.

House hoists Alvie up, two fingers tucked into the collar of his wife-beater, kisses him on the mouth again. “Sometimes I worry about your priorities.” Alvie is shaky in his arms; House wraps an arm around his waist to steady him. Sex is the quickest, most fool-proof method to shutting Alvie up. House reaches into Alvie’s track pants and strokes him off with ease, brings him to a finish with a shuddered exhale. Alvie leans forward against House, body slumped forward in his arms, still. 

House tucks Alvie’s crucifix back under his shirt. 

*

House takes it surprisingly well when Alvie shows back up in his apartment some months after he gets out of Mayfield. He looks good, and there’s a part of House that regrets not scooping up the man into his arms upon sight, as much as he could, and instead battering him in the knees with his cane. Hey, he’s being gracious enough letting Alvie get off essentially rent-free in his apartment while he bums around New Jersey. 

Whatever the situation was, it kept things at bay for the moment. House had someone to be not so alone with, even if he did take up three-quarters of the sheets like an overgrown spider and leave coffee rings on everything. There was more sunshine around the apartment (and not just because Alvie kept opening and closing and re-opening the blinds incessantly, either), more life. House and Alvie had most likely seen the worst of each other at Mayfield, or at least that’s what House kept hopefully reminding himself every other day. Alvie seemed thrust upon him, whether he liked it or not. For the moment, maybe he did, Alvie passed out in clean clothes and tucked into his side, cocooned warmly against House. He smells like soap, House thinks, _the soap in House’s shower_ , eyes shut but other senses working keenly. The soap in House’s shower in House’s bathroom that already bore wear of signs of use from two people, two toothbrushes on the sink, two towels. 

They do a lot together, surprisingly. It’s not hard to spend time with someone when it consists of ordering take-out and playing video games and drinking beer and sloppy blowjobs. Most nights consisted of staying up late then passing out on the sofa at one in the morning. House didn’t date anyone in high school, but he imagined it went something like this.

Alvie seems to complicate his daily routine, but House does his reluctant best to integrate Alvie, even if it means coming home from the grocery store with six jars of peanut butter. He’ll double check the basket next time. 

The walks are good for both of them; for House, it stretches his leg, and for Alvie, it gets out some of that dynamic energy that balls up inside him with nowhere to go. Alvie tries to hold his hand more than once, and House does that thing with his eyebrows until Alvie lets go and follows behind him like a scolded puppy dog. “That’s right,” Alvie whispers one of the times, “secret sugar daddy,” and House can’t do anything but roll his eyes. _”Doctor, doctor, gimme the news,”_ he sings behind him.

House is getting used to sleeping with the lights on, with the television left on at odd times. He does his best to stay patient with Alvie and to not get riled up by simple things. “I don’t have any trouble paying for rent,” House says, but expects Alvie to chip in for groceries. And condoms.

*

Alvie must have watched House rub his leg a thousand times. They’re lounging on the bed one morning, Alvie using House as a human pillow and sleeping in late, when House gets a twinge in his thigh. He starts to massage it, and Alvie’s hands follow. House knocks them away. They return, settling on top of House’s hands.

“Show me how,” he says softly. 

House gingerly brings Alvie’s fingers to his skin, adjusting the pressure of his hands slowly. He hisses once only, when Alvie’s hand slips too far, but Alvie watches carefully and doesn’t do it again.

House laid his head back and thought about how lucky he was, that this kid was crazy for him in so many ways. It wasn’t fair. Five minutes later, Alvie drops his head and places a kiss on House’s thigh. “My hand hurts.”

“I’m not sure what you get out of being with me.” House lowers a hand and scratches it through Alvie’s short dark hair. Alvie snuggles against him like a cat.

“Think I’m crazy for liking you or just looking for an ego boost? You’re handsome. You’re funny.” Alvie gazes up at House and smiles. “Smart. You have ‘gainful employment’, which my therapist says is a good thing. _’Back when I was nothin’ - you made a brother feel like he was somethin’; that’s why i’m with you to this day, boo - no frontin’._ Why? My turn. What about me?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” House says slyly, dropping his head on the pillow and tugging Alvie up for a kiss. “It’s not flattering.”

“Heyyy,” Alvie responds against House’s mouth. House deepens the kiss to keep him quiet, Alvie opening his mouth under House’s obediently. House’s hand curls around the back of his neck, fingertips ghosting across Alvie’s skin. It feels good to be able to take his time with this, to touch with no deadline or no worry from the frustrating and looming tension from someone possibly coming up behind them at any moment. 

House’s fingers move slowly against Alvie’s warm skin, searching. Maybe they could stay in bed a little longer.

*

“I’m a lyrical fucking genius!”

House groans and looks over at the clock. The numbers swim a little, but it’s definitely still somewhere after midnight. 

“Alvie. Alvie!”

Alvie’s sitting on the edge of the bed, tapping his hands against his thighs. House reaches out in the dark, groping for the figure in the shadows. His hand brushes against Alvie’s side.

“It’s three in the morning.”

It’s a toss-up when Alvie grinds against him and says he’d like to make sweet, sweet music whether he wants actual sex or just wants to rap for him a little bit. Alvie straddles House and pulls out a cigarette, starts to light it.

“Hey. Outside,” House insists. 

“Living by firelight,” Alvie says, somewhat nonsensically. 

House grabs the lighter out of Alvie’s hands. “ _Sleeping_ by night,” he corrects him.

Alvie frowns but quickly jumps off of House, making his way toward the back of the apartment. House’s head falls back against the pillow and he sighs once he hears the door open and shut. It takes a few minutes for him to pull himself out of bed. He flips on a light and grabs something from a pile on the dresser.

House starts to look out the porch window and gets distracted by the carton of orange juice sitting on the counter. Three empty glasses are beside it. House brings his attention back outside, where Alvie is wavering underneath the porch light like a moth. 

House pushes open the door and wraps Alvie in the grey sweatshirt, tugging him toward his chest. Alvie leans his head against House’s shoulder, his hands still fidgeting somewhere below. He presses his face into House’s chest, and House’s hand comes up to wrap around the back of his neck. House’s fingers find their way into Alvie’s hair as Alvie takes a deep, shaky breath.

"Am I keeping you awake?"

"Yes," House admits, unable to bring himself to lie to Alvie. "There's worse things in the world."

*

Alvie’s birthday passes with fanfare, as he can’t keep it quiet. House gets him something the week before and hides it away in his best guess of the only place Alvie might not completely overturn in a week’s time. House gives the present to him at dinner and Alvie is transfixed by the neatly wrapped edges and the precisely folded bow stuck to the top. Finally he rips off the wrapping paper, keeping some of it and fidgeting with it beneath the table. A book is revealed, a blank notebook, and Alvie just stares.

“For your rhymes,” House says. “Or not.”

“Thank you, Greg,” Alvie gets up and kisses him on the cheek. “Seriously, I mean it.” He stares at the notebook. “I can’t believe it.” He’ll have to write something down now, at least. 

Every pen in House’s apartment goes missing the next week, so he must be.

*

Alvie has secured permission to use House’s record player, under strict guidelines. He must always place everything where he found it. Two, he must have clean hands. Three - he must always remember to turn it _off_.

Alvie puts up with these rules for House’s incredible music collection, even though House is sure he takes at least forty percent of it for granted. House has a notable lack of hip-hop, but the turntable is Alvie’s favorite toy anyway. House came home with a Beastie Boys album last week, just snuck it into the stack, but when he sees Alvie’s eyes light up when he discovers it he thinks he’ll take him with him to the record store, next time.

Alvie reaches to the next stack and grabs a jazz album that keeps resurfacing near the top of the pile (probably House’s doing). The soft music fills the room. Alvie holds his arms out when he sees House silhouetted in the doorway. “What’s up, doc?”

House moves into Alvie’s arms and puts his own around Alvie’s neck. They sway for a minute or two until House’s leg twinges. 

“Thanks, homie.” Alvie sits down next to him, helping him to the sofa without making it look like that's what he was doing. A tiny subtlety, but House was impressed. “I got dance in my heart, yo.”

“I see.” House wraps his hand around Alvie’s, which is still furiously tapping the rhythm on his lap. It stills for a moment. 

There’s something charming about Alvie, something genuine; House can’t pin it down. Even at Alvie’s most annoying there’s something honest about him that pulls him in. 

“Feels good to share it.”

House kisses him softly, his silent agreement.


End file.
